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Burning Man: The Burn
Eastwatch Marsh :Brackish, waist-deep water swells through the flooded marshlands north of Eastwatch. Rising from the green, odious stink are gigantic swamp willows - their tangling creepers dropping to the water's surface like curtains. Even in daylight, the marshlands are perpetually darkened as the tangling, jungle-like growth blocks out the sun. :Life abounds here, from the colorful birdlife to the buzzing insects and slivering uglies in the murky deep below. Bright flashes of yellow light occasionally illuminate the dim undergrowth as lampflies perpetually dance to attract a mate. All around, bright flowers burst from the moss-covered trees, offsetting the sulfurous stink with fleeting wafts of sweetness. ---- The thick, low drone of insects is overcome by the sound of boiling water, as a light glow can be seen coming from one point in the swamp. Taran picks his way carefully along the rather minimalist path, leading his horse by the reins and holding his Lute high for light. "I had wondered whether water might ease the fire," he says - not loudly, but pitched well to carry over the water. A single burning blonde-coifed head sticks up above the water, the boiling water popping large, scummy bubbles all around him. "Slightly," the boy admits coldly. Taran approaches carefully. "This water, it is not the best for burns," he says. "I would call the river too open...but half of Fastheld has seen you in the sky now. Surely, hiding is of limited purpose." Carefully, he says, "It is not what is needed...but I have some limited skill in herb-craft, if that can help at all." "I realize it isn't ideal for burns. I was just looking for a temporary respite. Which you, yet again, have interrupted." The boy scowls at Taran, sighing. "I have been doing herbalism since well before you were born, child. If there was a panacea save for a mere doping drug like yellowtongue, I would have taken it already. And I have no wish for dulling the pain, it helps me realize that this is real." Taran is waist-deep in the swamp - not a small thing for a man of his height - holding up his Lute for light and a free hand holding his horse by the reins. He's talking to a - head, really, amid boiling, glowing swamp water. "A man burns and is in pain, and quite likely to get himself punctured by arrows or taken down by a mage with credentials to prove, and you would have me turn away?" asks Taran, his tone amused. "I might, indeed, and what of everyone else that follows the burning in the sky?" He tilts his head. "Who are you?" "If you want to help me, get me a hare handtart. Maybe some blue wine. I don't need your pity or your incessant nosing about." says the burning head emerging out of the boiling swamp water. "And as I told you before, who I am is none of your concern. Suffice to say, I am talented enough to avoid death by arrows," the boy scoffs. "I always hated the marshes. Bloody gonna have to wash out my armour." Lucius says, sighing to himself as his figure moves through the area, still fairly distant from Taran and Riditt. "So what exactly are we looking for, other than the source of that light?" "You will know it when you see it," Syton replies with a bit of a smirk. For a man half submerged in thick, smelly bog water, he seems to be enjoying himself too much. The smaller of the two interlopers rounds the broad trunk of a swamp willow and comes to an abrupt stop at the scene before him. Taran turns, shining his lute-strings in the direction of the complaining sloshes. "There, you see?" he says to the burning mage, with a little laugh. "Sink yourself in a swamp and people come all the way from Sweetwater to find you. Perhaps you should regard me as an early warning system." Riditt glares balefully at Taran, and then at Lucius and Temple. He sighs long and hard, sinking further in the muck, a burning hand reaching up to pinch at his noseridge. Lucius Nepos stops to arch an eyebrow at the proceedings in front of him, shifting the spear on his back so that he's gripping it by the throwing strap. "Hmm." Syton looks from Taran to Riditt, watching the flaming head disappear down into the bog. He puts a hand to his mouth and twitches, then unable to contain it, bursts into laughter. He sloshes around, nearly falling over, before he catches himself against a swamp willow with one hand. It is obvious that he is trying not to laugh, but of course, that just makes it worse. "By all means, master Nepos, cast your spear," sighs Taran. "It will strike or it will fail to, and in any case a valuable lesson will be learned." He looks down at the bubbling mage. "Blue wine? That might be possible." The burning man looks between the near-giggling and the readied spear and his eyebrows lower. "It will be the last time you use that hand, soldier. Why can't you people let me be?!" he shouts. "I have a very stressful life, and it is taking every inch of moral fiber that I have not to teleport you seven hundred feet in the air and drop you!" "I haven't been threatened yet, Master bard, and I don't see a good enough reason to do so. As it stands, all I've seen was a benignly flaming mage. Flame is dangerous, you know." Lucius notes, tightening his grip on the weapon and simply watching those present, especially the mage himself. "Well, now I have been threatened. Big words for someone who looks like they've got a spear about this size up their arse." Syton nearly collects himself enough to speak before being struck with a fit of laughter. He shakes his head apologetically and clutches at his support tree. "Sorry," he manages to croak out. He speaks as best as he can, "Did not... want... water... in nose..." He pinches his nose illustratively and is once more consumed with laughter. "As ever, I can see your priorities are entirely in order," says Taran, to the two latecomers. Turning back to the burning mage, he says, "This will only get worse, I am sure. So I will say - if you wish music or a meal, then find me. I am reasonably certain at this point that you would be able to do so." He shrugs. "And if not, not. Curiosity and concern both have their respectful limits." Buzzing can be heard around the boiling marsh, growing quickly in intensity. "I want peace. I can still see her face. Bula's face," the boy whispers, his eyes taking on a crazed look. "I guess the only hope of peace is to go live with the Wildlings," he mutters chokingly. "I'm hardly looking for a fight. I am armed as a precaution, and possibly because I was just outside of the Aegis. What ails you, besides flame, master?" Asks Lucius. Perhaps the gravity of the situation is finally reaching Syton, or maybe he has just run out of things to laugh at, but either way, his laughing fit comes to a rather abrupt end. He straightens up, smirking, and wipes the tears from his eyes. Lucius and Taran get brief glances, but his attention remains on the burning mage, for the most part. "You think you won't see their faces out there?" He shakes his head. "Whatever you do, Master, do it carefully. Watch for Shadow Wraiths." Taran - perhaps recognizing the buzzing - offers no response. Not in words, anyway. Instead he quits holding his Lute aloft, and settles it in his arms to play. Yes, in the middle of the night, and in the middle of the swamp, though it would be impossible to tell either from his bearing - or his playing, which is of an incredible caliber. From the shining strings, a hauntingly beautiful melody issues forth - as requested, a song of rest and peace. "Wraiths are bad. Acarits are worse," the boy says, the buzzing growing louder and louder until it is a motored scream. "But at least they don't talk," he mutters. All of a sudden, the buzzing stops, and Riditt is gone. Category:Logs